


The Chance I Never Took

by TehLotteh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehLotteh/pseuds/TehLotteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He was different, he was new, and he would go far. He was silent, an anomaly, an enigma, and all Cullen wanted to do was to be his friend.<br/>Templars and mages could not be friends."</p><p> <br/>Throughout his life, there was one constant that Cullen could never escape from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chance I Never Took

When he was thirteen, fresh in the Templar recruits, he lost his heart to another, to the wild eyed blonde from the Anderfels, with such life and vibrancy that the other children were drawn to him. He didn't know that this was where his heart had gone, so young and tender and full of hope for the world. He wouldn't know for many years. But, like the apprentices, he was drawn to the bright light of the boy who didn't know their tongue, who stood alone in a crowded hall. He was different, he was new, and he would go far. He was silent, an anomaly, an enigma, and all Cullen wanted to do was to be his friend.

Templars and mages could not be friends.

 

When he was fourteen, he saw the first reprimand. He was on patrol with his officer when they heard a commotion in a corridor, and the older male soon dragged him along to see the problem. The Anders boy stood between a younger apprentice and a Templar, his chin raised in defiance, his golden hair falling from its tie and stroking at his cheek, the skin reddened from recent contact with the back of a glove. The Templar raised his hand ready to strike again, and strike he did, and still the boy did not flinch, yelling abuse at him. The blonde caught sight of him, and Cullen's gut dropped as he called for them to interfere, insisting that the other Templar was in the wrong.

Cullen's senior stepped forward, took a look at the accused, and without a second thought took the apprentice by his wrists and dragged him off, beckoning for Cullen to follow. He did so doggedly, and did as he was told, standing outside the room as he heard the sound of lashes on skin, and he could imagine the look of the leather as it cut through the air, brought on a quick stop on pale flesh. Words accompanied the actions, admonishments, instructions not to lie and to learn one's place. A mage was below a Templar, a mage was lucky to be given this chance to live, despite being a danger to all. After ten minutes of waiting, the noises ceased, and Cullen stood tall as the Templar pushed the blonde mage through the door, wincing as he saw blood seeping through the apprentice robes. That treatment was surely too harsh, but his seniors must know what they were doing. A renegade mage was a danger to all, and without patience and temperance, they would be quick to fall to demons.

The boy glanced to him and his hatred cut harsher than any blade.

 

When he was fifteen, he was called upon for his first Harrowing, the older Templars there only to make sure he carried through with his duty. Should the apprentice fall to a demon, it was Cullen's job to drive the blade home. The idea made him shudder, but he made sure to hold his shoulders tall, knowing that it was either one mage or a dozen innocents. A mage who made a deal with a demon deserved to die, this he knew, and it was a duty he would carry out with pride.

Oh, the Maker jested. The dusty blonde male was brought before him, but refused to look at him. He was tense, rebellious, and Cullen watched him warily. Such resentment for the Templars who kept him safe, who made sure the mages were protected. Did he not understand? Was he not grateful? Surely he would fall prey to a demon's deceit, he would beg for the strength to fight for the sake of fighting. Cullen felt a pang of sadness that the young man would be so willing to give up the safety and security that he had, and as he watched them start the rite of passage from apprentice to Circle mage, he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and watched, and waited. Would he twitch, moan? Would there be any warning of demonic possession, or would his lack of reaction be the death of he and his fellow Templars?

The blonde groaned as he stirred, and in alarm Cullen drew his sword, and would have struck out had his senior not grabbed his wrist, shaking his head slightly, telling him to calm. He could tell from some of the expressions that many Templars were not pleased that the mage in particular had passed his Harrowing; the young man who had adopted the monicker of Anders was a thorn in the side of many, his rebellious nature and utter refusal to comply causing more than the odd scene within the Circle. Cullen had heard it mentioned that Anders had shown a talent in the spirit arts, and as the Templars dragged the man in question to his room, he heard one say that perhaps now Wynne would take him under his wing. Cullen didn't like Wynne. Wynne scared him. Perhaps, however, she would be just the right discipline for the young mage. He looked to the firm hand on his shoulder, the words of praise from the senior's mouth, and his heart swelled with pride with the knowledge that he had passed his Templar training. He had passed, he had qualified, and he would be able to assist with keeping the mages safe, keeping Thedas safe.

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just._

 

He had heard of mages who wished to escape the Circle, apostates who lived without the protection offered to them, and those who did escape were never long being brought back in, warned of the dangers they risked by trying to live alone. He had even heard of and known the odd one to escape twice, or three times, but after that they learnt the error of their ways.

When he was seventeen, he saw the mage brought in who had escaped seven times, watched as he was manhandled towards the cells below the tower, and stood beside the door as he was pushed in. Dark, black air, thick with damp and only a candle to offer light, and the door shut and locked behind him. Cullen and a few other low-ranking Templars were charged with guarding the door, ensuring that he didn't make another infamous escape. He was a blot on the Circle's reputation, and the mages needed to know that the Templars were still capable of protecting them.

The first month, there was silence.

The second, there was crying.

The third, whispers.

The fourth, scratching.

The fifth, nightmares.

The sixth, begging.

The tenth, screaming.

The eleventh, desperation.

The twelfth, silence.

The door that opened on the final day saw a man dragged out, very different to the one who had been dragged in. The Templars were sure that he had learnt his lesson, that he would be a good mage and stay within the Circle, stay where it was safe, where they could keep an eye on him. Had he not passed his Harrowing, Tranquillity would have been an option, but the First Enchanter assured them that this mage was no threat, that he was merely a man who liked to test his boundaries to further extremities than his comrades.

Cullen disagreed. He saw the gaunt pallour of the man's face, the sinking of his skin to his cheekbones, the hunched shoulders that had to be supported as he was dragged out. He saw the dank and matted hair, the way the eyelids squinted to protect the honey coloured eyes from light that was too harsh after a year in near darkness. He saw the burning fire in those eyes, a fire that begged for kindling, a release.

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.

 

When he was twenty three, his life had changed. He had seen close friends, brothers and sisters ripped apart in ways he could hardly imagine. He had faced death in the eye, had felt his body wrapped in the warm yet deadly embrace of magic, had seen his very world collapse around him. He had heard tales of the Blight, of betrayal, of heroes. He had heard of the sacrifice of the Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, and seen the rise of a new King.

He had not heard the news that he was so desperate to hear.

He had been moved to Kirkwall, his experience with mage rebellion supposedly an attractive trait to the Circle there. He had found a city in a worse state than he had imagined, tensions tighter than he though possible. He had risen through the ranks, proven himself a capable man, reliable, strong, determined. He had proven himself worthy of the title of Knight-Captain, and guided his men towards a better future, a better world. He had found apostates and maleficarum and helped to stop the spread of this disease. Free mages were dangerous mages, this he knew, and this he was seeing.

And then, he saw him.

His heart ached with a mix of joy and fear at seeing the mage from the Anderfels once more, for despite his change in appearance, he knew it could only be him. He looked older, wearier, his fancy and flashy robes discarded for a worn-out and tattered coat with boots that seemed to be ready to give way. His strong jaw was coated in days-old stubble, his hair messily tied out of his face, and wrinkles around his eyes betrayed the years that had no doubt brought trouble to his life. His eyes though.. Cullen could see that fire, that light, that strength present that had drawn him to him from their very first meeting. There was fire, there was loathing, and there was determination.

Their eyes met across the square, and although only brief, Cullen felt his stomach flip, his breathing hitching, the shot of electricity jolting through his body at the want, the need, the desire for the other man. He had worried for his well-being for years, and seeing him now, he ached to hold him, to know where he had been, to tell him all about the horrors of what had happened back at the Circle in Ferelden.

Anders lowered his gaze quickly and stepped behind the broad, dark-haired man known as Hawke. The refugee from Lothering had been making a name for himself, and the wary glance that the would-be Champion shot back at the mage sent a spark of jealousy straight to Cullen's chest. Did this man hold the affections he had so craved, despite not knowing they were what he was seeking until he had gone? The following action made this feeling swell, seeing the mage reach forwards and gently touch the dark haired man's arm, and after a long moment Cullen relaxed. Perhaps they did share something that he could only dream of, but he realised that it was not something to begrudge of the mage. All his life he had seemed angry, resentful..  _Scared._  Here, he had someone to trust, to aid him, and perhaps that was what was important. He apologised, insisting that he had duties to attend to. He saw Anders lock up, eyes narrowing him as he regarded him, every inch of him defensive, muscles taut as if ready to run or fight. Cullen just gave him a gentle smile and the smallest shake of his head, turning from them then, but not before he saw him relax.

It would not be his tongue that turned the apostate in.

 

When he was thirty three, he saw the world collapse once again. The arguments between the ever-restless Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter grew more and more troublesome, as if Kirkwall didn't have enough trouble after the Qunari attack and the loss of the Viscount. He grew more and more grateful to see Hawke's aid with the city, and with every meeting of theirs, he got a little more time to see Anders. The man never spoke to him, but he softened, his eyes smiling once or twice, but as the days towards that fateful day became less numerous, he noticed a harshness, a tension in him that he had never seen.

He saw the burning in those eyes fade.

As the mage tapped his staff to the ground at the Gallows, refusing to meet the gaze of any around him, Cullen saw the gravity of all the years on him. With each thump against the floor, he saw a weight piled on him, a burden he had been resisting and bearing with pride for as long as he could remember. He saw a flash of blue, a crackling against the man's skin, and couldn't help but recoil with fear. After the events of the tower, with Uldred's rebellion and the demons running amok, the realisation that the man he cared for bore that same passenger, a demonic possession, terrified him.

The floor trembled, the sky lit up with fire, and the air rang with screams.  _I have removed the chance of compromise..._  He heard sounds of confusion, Hawke's voice calling out in hurt, betrayal, and Anders' own body slumping in defeat, willpower the only thing keeping him standing.  _...because there can be no compromise._  Cullen heard his Knight-Commander call for the Rite of Annulment, forcing Hawke to choose a side, Orsino imploring him to consider the mages' plight. Cullen knew that the First Enchanter was right, knew that Meredith would stop at nothing short of every mage dead, the threat to her city wiped out. A mage had brought all this destruction, something that the Order and the Chantry had been warning for as long as could be remembered.

_There can be no peace._

He heard Meredith give the order to clear the streets, kill all those who possessed any form of magic. The mages would be eradicated from Kirkwall before any other Circles got the idea of following suit in an uprising. The Templars made their way to carry out the orders and to prepare themselves for the fight against the mages in the Gallows, who were quickly making way to lock themselves in and ready for a siege, but Cullen caught sight of Hawke approaching the blonde mage who had sat himself on a box, all the fight out of his body. He stuck to the shadows, watching, unable to hear the words exchanged. He saw the dagger drawn from Hawke's belt, however, saw him hesitate with the blade at Anders' back, and Cullen knew then that this had to be done. It was justice for those innocents who had died, but it was also an act to give hope, a message to those who followed Anders' cause. He would be their martyr, their Andraste, a name spread on the lips of a thousand mages who sought for the right to a fair life.

As the blade sank through the flesh that Cullen knew would be spattered with countless lashes and scars, he fancied the cool steel may as well be sinking into his own heart. His fingers dug into the pillar he found himself leaning on, unable to tear his eyes away as the mage arched in pain before slumping, falling to his side, and falling still. He waited, rooted to the spot as Hawke gathered the rest of his party before going to aid with the fighting and save what lives they could, and when he fancied the open square empty enough, he forced his feet forwards, each step like walking with leaden bones, a wearying agony that took all of his strength.

Any hopes he had that the man would be alive were dashed as he came to his body, seeing the lifeless eyes gazing at nothing. He sank to his knees in front of him, all the emotions of the years hitting him hard, and he realised that his feelings had been more than just care, more than just infatuation. Seeing the mage dead before him tore a chunk from his soul, a gaping pain that ripped at his insides with greater vigour the more that he was aware of it. He had trained as a Templar to protect both innocents and mages, from magic, demons, and the world itself. And here, he was hit with the realisation that he had failed to do just that, to save the man that he.. That he..

_That he loved._

He reached out a shaky hand, taking deep breaths to fight against the tears that threatened to fall and remove his composure, but he refused to give in to them. Trembling fingers delicately closed the man's eyes before coming to rest on the black pauldrons the mage had taken to wearing recently, fingering the soft feathers. He remembered being a recruit once more, once catching sight of a young Anders staring wistfully out of a window at a blackbird perched on the sill, preening. When the mage had caught sight of him he had scowled, unimpressed that he should be caught in such a moment, but not having the grasp of the current tongue to berate him.

Now, those shaking fingers plucked one of the feathers from his shoulders, and Cullen wrapped his fingers tightly around it, pressing it to his heart. He heard the shouts of battle from down the streets, and knew then that his personal grieving had to end. He leaned forwards and placed a chaste kiss on Anders' forehead, wishing he had said the words he had only recently come to realise he needed to say, and stood, tucking the feather safely within his armour.

Thedas would be bathed in blood and fire. He had fallen for the catalyst, and he would not come out of this without being burned. No matter how the land was ravaged, how many lives were damaged and torn apart by the coming storm, Cullen knew that things would be healed once more.

The man lying before him was a healer after all, and he had faith in that. As broken bones had to be painfully reset before being able to be healed, so too did Thedas need this storm to right the wrongs that had been plaguing her for centuries. The man would be remembered as a martyr, an anarchist, an arsonist, a bastard and a saint.

For Cullen, he was a chance he never took.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire." - Ferdinand Foch


End file.
